Words and Sounds
by PineappleOverlord
Summary: Maka Albarn is a creature of the day, a girl who reveres information and knowledge more than anything. Soul Evans is of the night, a boy who finds solace in music. AU.
1. Exposition

**A/N: I am not French, not do I study French. All French is taken from my schoolgirl French I learnt two years ago. Likewise, I do not understand music. Any mistakes I make in the course of this ficlet will probably be ridiculously stupid, and honestly, I have no regrets, damnit. Let me pretend to be intelligent.**

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Paris; the cultural hub of the world, a home to artists, inventors, poets and lovers.

In a boulevard of soaring dreams stood a library. Above ground, a city of books and dust and days gone by; below, a symphonic cavern of the night. A staircase was the only portal between these two worlds, and the creatures from down below would linger there, cigarette smoke and gossip trickling from their lips. And the creatures from above would linger too, curiosity piqued, minds awhir with the possibility of a world so unlike their own.

Maka Albarn was a skinny girl with breasts as flat as her purse. She had uninteresting hair of an indiscriminate colour, yet her eyes were watchful and sharp. Her hands were stronger and lither than they should have been, and were marred by scribbled words and inky scars. She lived among the dusty tomes of the upper reaches of the building, pored over Latin and foreign dynasties, absolved herself in fantasy and legend, studied algebra and quantum physics. A self-made beacon of knowledge, her friends and neighbours flocked to her for advice and answers. Every morning just after dawn, she would enter those hallowed halls and by nightfall, she would be gone. She was never there to watch the creatures of the night come or go.

Soul Evans was a boy with a slouch born from a lifetime without cares. His eyes were heavy, his gaze lazy. His hair, pale enough to be considered white, was neglected and stood erect from days without brushing, yet his clothes betrayed his wealth and status. He was a creator; he could bind sounds to his will, coax songs from strings and keys, transform a mere whisper into a masterpiece. His sound was not one of renown, yet those who had heard it flocked to him for another melody. Every evening, just after the set of the sun, he would enter the subterranean palace and by sunrise, he would be gone. He was never there to watch the spirits of the day come or go.

They weren't supposed to meet. A juxtaposition of their two worlds was incomprehensible.

They say Paris is sweetest in the springtime, when the trees guarding the precious tower burst into life, and the sun remembers its previous intentions, shining down on the city with rekindled zeal. The birdsong is cheerier, the streets busier, the parties wilder.

And so it was that Soul Evans stayed long past his usual hours, returning to the streets with resiual ash from his cigarette on the one shoulder, and a violin case filled with crumpled notes slung over the other. Maka's shoulders were equally weighed down with the books she was due to return, and it was pure coincidence that these two shoulders bumped.

Maka couldn't help but blush a little; partly because of his intense gaze, partly because of her own clumsiness. She mumbled a quick, "Excusez-moi, monsieur," and hurried away.

Soul Evans didn't know much French, and surrounded himself with those who could speak his own tongue, but these garbled words were some of the few he understood. He made no reply, however, since the girl was too far away, and his head was still throbbing, his mouth incapable of forming coherent sounds. And so it was that he only grunted dismissively, heading in the other direction.

Maka slipped into her second home, her world of literature, taking care to wipe her shoes on the mat provided. The librarian was almost like a sister to her and they exchanged smiles as Maka reached into her bag to withdraw the books. But her fingers touched something that wasn't paper, and she recoiled slightly. It was a lighter.

Books advocated both liberty and conformity, were torn between democracy and monarchy, and could not conclude the happenings of the future, yet all agreed that smoking was a vice. She could list the implements of the tar and toxins stored within each roll of paper- the only use of paper that was not for good- and offer a million arguments for rehabilitation. The fact that a lighter had wormed its way into her possession was absurd.

"Mademoiselle?" the librarian enquired.

"Oui," she said, with a shake of her head to clear her head of the rogue information, and passed the books over the counter.

She would get rid of the lighter as soon as she was done for the day, she promised herself, settling down in an alcove overlooking the river. Although the view was beautiful, her mind turned to the Nile and the secrets hidden in the silt of its banks. The words took hold of her and time became a insubstantial whisper of memories and dreams. But she was not in Cairo, but in Paris, and here the days were shorter and the nights darker, the stars suffocated by tungsten and neon. It was later than usual, and Maka found she did not have the time to scavenge for more to read. She got up to leave, her bag empty, save for the lighter.

Soul had not compensated for his late departure that morning and was in the library at his usual time, mingling with his kind, his pack of nocturnal lyricists. There they stood, on the staircase, dragons breathing smoke and song, surrounded by a thrall of eager adolescents. He lapped up the attention, whispering sweet nothings into the girls' ears so that they would giggle and press closer, never mind that they didn't understand his English tongue. Sometimes, he would push the boundaries and murmur obscenities, but they were lost within the tide of his compliments and poetry. The French girls never knew the difference anyway.

When Maka saw him, lips pressed tight against another cigarette, about to descend back into his musical abyss, a spark of recognition ignited in her brain, and the mystery of the lighter was solved.

"Arretez, monsieur!" she called, reaching out to halt him.

Soul turned, glanced first at the hand on his shoulder, the hand that bore inked hieroglyphs, then at her face, and through the smoke of his mind, he recalled that morning.

"Tu as oublie cette."

None of those words made sense to him, but the extended lighter did, and he gave her a lazy smile and a heavily accented, "Merci, belle."

Unlike most other girls, she didn't seem at all fazed by the compliment. She gave a demure smile as acknowledgement and turned on her heel to leave, calling a, "Bonne nuit, madame," over to the librarian as she left the building.

Soul watched her go, and entered the living night.


	2. Temperament

Springtide. The skies are full of birdsong once more. The plants repopulate the ground, recaptivate imaginations. The nights come later and the dawns earlier.

Not so for Soul Evans, playing his music for a minute longer every day. The people wanted to celebrate the turning of seasons, the ebb and flow of daylight, and nothing would suffice but twelve hours of music. Smooth jazz, classical, rockabilly; anything would do as long as it had a rhythm. However, he didn't mind. It was a nice development and the extra money made up for the lack of sleep.

He saw more of the library's visitors with each passing hour. Some came in the pursuit of knowledge, others in pursuit of the musicians and singers. Maka was one of the few girls who came for the former, and, admittedly, this confused Soul. She barely even recognised his presence, other than to cough and glare at his cigarette-covered clothes as they passed one another in the doorway.

Yet, unbeknownst to him, she noticed a lot more. Reading people was simply a natural progression from reading literature. The faint bruising beneath his eyes told of sleepless nights and restless days, his creased and faintly stained clothing said he lived alone, and his posture and build spoke volumes about his upbringing, diet, and routine. In the evenings, she'd glance over from a Tolstoy or Dumas and laugh to herself when she saw the pale boy's mysterious pretences. He was too easy to figure out to be as enigmatic as he imagined.

Sometimes, Maka lingered longer than sundown if a book captivated her. She would hear the faint throes of fiddles fighting against the floorboards, but couldn't distinguish them from violins or guitars. She knew a lot about history, scripture and science, but nothing about music. Yet even so, she fancied she could match each instrument to a face . The man with long hair and a braid in his beard played drums. The small Asian girl composed the haunting flute melody. The greying businessman was the owner of the bassy voice, the lanky redhead the guitarist. And the boy she always passed by, the one who smoked, he was surely a violinist. His long fingers were created for the keening beauty of the strings, not to hold his daily fix.

And yet every night, when he arrived, he would loiter by the stairs, strike up a cigarette and breathe in the smoke. The people around him turned into mere shadows beneath the nicotine haze. The dissolute became meaningless, the serendipitous bright, and the girl he had met by chance shone brightest. Her manner intrigued him, especially the way she seemed to live in the written word.

It took him a couple of weeks to speak to her again. He had his reasons to abstain from conversation- his horrible French was foremost in that long list- but one day, he decided to take that small risk. He found her reading, and attempted a, "Qu'est ce que cest?"

She turned, pigtails whipping the air away to give her words space, "Notre-Dame de Paris. Écrite par Victor Hugo. Un classique."

Soul had never read the book, nor had he heard of the author, but he knew the movie and could play its scores from memory. The girl turned back to her story, and he tried to follow the unfamiliar language but found himself floundering within the stream of vowels. French was to English like legato to staccato, and he understood the last far better. Legato still had its languid appeal, so he kept trying, "Comment t'appelles-tu?"

There was good-natured mirth in her eyes at his expense and a teasing note to her perfect French when she replied, "Je m'apelle Maka. Et toi?"

"Soul."

"Bonsoir, Monsieur Soul," she gestured towards the staircase, "T'aime la musique?"

"Oui," he said, and that was the end of the conversation.

It was then that Soul realised he was struggling- whatever creativity had been bestowed upon him was being reclaimed. Words escaped the reaches of his mind and chords slipped through his fingers into harsh dissonance. When his fangirls came to hear his poetry, he made no attempt to romanticise. He would recite shopping lists and simple maths, but soft so the words soothed the unassuming French ears.

He was speaking of milk and dairy to a curvaceous brunette when Maka rounded the corner, hessian bag slung over the one shoulder, weighed down with characters and plot lines. It was a Friday; this was the day she would take as many books as to not cause herself injury, and only on the Monday morning would she reappear. Feeling brave, he waved her over, "Bonsoir, Maka."

She said a quick goodbye to the librarian before she wandered over, uncertain as to what he wanted, "Bonsoir. Çava?"

It took him a moment to remember the reply, but he said it with a smile, "Çava bien, merci."

"Que faites-vous?"

He didn't know the French, but he thought it would be similar, "Poetry."

Maka smiled at the girl he still had his arm around, moving her bag so it sat more comfortably on her collarbone, "Puis-je écouter, s'il vous plaît?"

He was silent for a moment, before resuming his soliloquy, "Then, to the left, you find the vegetables. Carrots, parsnips, turnips, whatever you please. You take the bag, put them in."

Maka smiled softly, the same smile she had on her face when she was immersed in a book. Soul figured he was doing something right and moved on.

"Then fruit: apples, oranges, strawberries, grapes, cherries. Imported from all the corners of the world. Or whatever a sphere has. Curves."

Her smile broadened, a genuine twinkle appeared in her eye, the same twinkle she had when she was discovering something new, the sort every French girl got when she heard his natural tongue.

"Most have their own counter for meat and fish, all of it fresh. They'll slice it for you, marinade it, pack-"

He was cut off by laughter. Soul let go of the brown-haired girl to look at Maka properly. She was easing off the early hysterics, straightening up her bag to stop it slipping off her slender arms.

"Qu'est ce que cest?"

When she was calm again, that soft smile was back, "I'll be sure to check out your local supermarket then. It sounds great."

And then she turned and walked away, leaving Soul to wonder, embarrassed, what on earth an English girl was doing in Paris.

**A/N: Just come back from South Africa (did I mention I was there?) so I'll be steadily uploading everything I wrote other there- namely, not a lot.**

**Would like to point out one more time that I have no knowledge of French. Thank the flying platypi for translators!**


	3. Capriccio

**A/N: Thanks to everyone for being so lovely about this ficlet. OuO**

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Weekends are like conduits of fresh air; beautiful things created solely for the purposes of relaxation, the defenders of personal freedom and the right to enjoy life. Forty eight hours to rewind and recuperate before the daily grind takes hold once more.

Yet, as much as Maka liked to romanticise the concept, those two days didn't amount to much. They were the days her father would open his arms to her, and then, realising his affection was unwanted, open his pantry too. Mr Albarn was too doting, too loud and too grating for his daughter, but his cooking was the incentive to be the loving child he wanted her to be. Maka's acting skills, however, left a lot to be desired so he often simply let her return to her books. In the end, weekends only made the need to relax more pressing, since she could steal away more hours reading without her flat mates complaining about the light disrupting their sleep.

Soul had the same problem. For some, rewinding meant hours spent in the bath, for others, the narcotic basslines and blinding lights of the dance floor. Weekends offered no respite from his unkind night hours, especially not now that his mind was awhir with thoughts of Maka Albarn. More than anyone else, Soul couldn't stand being humiliated. His cool demeanour stemmed from the paranoia of judgement and Maka had shattered that effortlessly, simply by speaking the wrong language.

He poured the last dregs of his creativity into choreographing Monday's conversation, the explanation.

He wasn't going to drink, especially not Sunday night; he needed his wits about him. He wasn't going to smoke either, since she obviously hated that habit of his. No, he would appear before her clean-shaven and creaseless, yet casual.

"Good morning, Maka," he would say, in that husky murmur girls went crazy over.

She would be momentarily taken aback by his suaveness, but recover quickly. She was Maka after all. She'd probably smirk a little, "You been shopping, Soul?"

And then he'd draw out a bunch of roses and tell her, "Yeah. I did. I bought you these," except who was he kidding, he didn't have time to go buy her flowers. Instead, he'd probably sidestep the subject, bring up the weather, wax lyrical about the dawn.

She'd be flummoxed; something would stir within her as she heard the poetry, the gentle waltz of words, and she would forget his previous stupidity.

That was the plan, anyway. Composing such beautiful prose proved difficult to him, especially now he was stuck in an artistic rut. Words came and went with each chord his friends played, never lingering long, changing key, time signature, timbre, until they became a hastily assembled montage in his head. He took a small sip of wine, forgetting his previous resolution. The honeyed pitch trickled down his throat and he remembered. He remembered how words fit together, phrases like ombré flames and muted angels.

He remembered how bloody great alcohol tasted.

As the serving girl passed again, he took another glass, since the first had been drained without his noticing. Ideas began to fit together. Illicit affection. Black redemption. Renegade addiction. Another glass was taken, emptied in an instant. One more to take its place. The numbers were insignificant, shadowed by the letters that took their place. He reached into his pocket and groped for a cigarette, lighting it with fumbling fingers and inhaling the smoke, obscuring his vision, clearing his head. The words came then, borne on soft melody.

Soul tried to take another drink, but his fingers only brushed cleavage. He was about to apologise, before realising she was attractive- nice face, great body. The serving girl was obviously undecided on whether to lash out or flirt with the handsome inebriate, so he made up her mind for her; stumbling into the adjoining room and pulling her into him, he whispered his words, low and languid. He felt her melt with each foreign phrase, felt her sink into his skin, felt her hands working at his belt, felt the alcohol on her breath as she kissed his collarbone. Later, he felt his words drift away to bare sound as he drove into her.

A hundred words were exchanged, and never a name.

When dawn came, the words he had intended to describe it were irretrievable, carved into a stranger's memory. Against his better judgement, he had drank, and he had smoked. He was not clean-shaven, not creaseless. He left his previous intentions to lie forgotten, like the girl he had loved last night, and left the library without another word.

Maka saw him leave from between the bookshelves. She read into every small movement. He was obviously hungover, and covered in cigarette ash. His crumpled shirt and the lipstick stains rising above the collar told her that he'd had a much more 'exciting' weekend than hers. She shook her head and turned away. She had planned to jibe the English boy over their last encounter, but couldn't find any reason to trust him, or even to feel comfortable around him. However, he obviously had different ideas, since that evening saw him at her side, in a slightly better state than the morning. He moved towards her fluidly, not in that tentative way he did when he was still nursing a hangover, and he had changed his clothes, but his jaw was covered in the pale shadow of stubble.

"Evening, Maka."

She nodded, "Soul. How are you?"

"Alright. Tired."

"Yeah. Me too."

And when she said it, he noticed for the first time the faint bruising beneath her brown eyes, gained from the almost abusive lack of sleep, "Reading's a strenuous hobby, huh?"

"Sometimes," she said, and cut off any further conversation by bringing her book up between them.

He lingered still, running a pale finger along the spines of classics. He pulled one out, glanced at the blurb, "You tried the supermarket yet?"

If she appreciated that he wasn't taking himself seriously, she didn't show it, "You never specified which."

"Carrefour."

"Then I'll go tomorrow," she glanced up from her book, "I didn't know you liked to read."

"Neither did I."

He looked away, and she drew out a pen. The silence was jarred only by the gentle flick of pages. Maka looked up, the same time as he did, and two pairs of eyes immediately darted away, pretending to be engrossed in other things.

Soul spoke again, "So, why are you in Paris?"

"The culture. Beautiful city, idealistic people, brilliant food, iconic art, stunning literature…"

"And the music?"

This was a question she was incapable of answering. She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve, "Hmm. I guess. Parisian music sounds the same as any other."

Aghast, Soul closed his book, "Of course not. Far from it. It's so different here. This, the whole underground music system, it's the birthplace of the greatest sound. So more bohemian. There's a certain beauty, a special uniqueness, to each and every chord, to every minim and crochet and-"

Maka cut him off with a smile; the smile of curiosity, her reading smile. And he smiled too, happy he got something right. She looked at him properly now, "For a supermarket fetishist, you have a certain eloquence, Soul."

He put his hand to the crook of his neck, sheepish, "I'm glad you think that, because I'd like to try the whole poetry thing again, maybe?"

She waved a hand. Go ahead.

"If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, my dreams presage some joyful news at hand: my bosom's lord sits lightly on his throne. And all-"

As he was speaking, she picked up her books, and slotted one into the shelf next to him, standing close, almost touching. She smiled up at him, "Cute. But that's Shakespeare."

"Heh. How'd you know?"

"You were reading it just a second ago, idiot," and she hit him over the head with the second book, before walking away.

He felt his morning's headache returning as he went his own way. There was more strength than there should have been in those lithe hands, hands that were covered in ink and endlessly functional. They detailed the Mao dynasty, reminded that Saturday was important and displayed poetry. In newer, fresher ink, were more words- 'floccinaucinihilipilification', 'Dickens', 'Carrefour'- as well as pictures of cats, mathematical diagrams and hearts. Rather a lot of hearts.

And, somehow, that mattered to Soul.


	4. Adagio

**A/N: My schedules are bad and rigged with holes. Sorry. Having a bit of an existential crisis/ a lot of writer's block at the moment, as well as having the attention spam of a Sims addict and someone who has just discovered Tumblr. But hey. I'm here now. Tis all good.**

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The evening is a meeting of night and day, a blurred area in which nothing is certain except the numbers on the clock and the grass on the ground and the sun and the moon in the flower field sky.

That uncertainty siphoned into every pore of Maka's body as she stood, stock still, hand hovering over a book she secretly coveted but had never found, a prime example of ergodic literature. This was probably her only chance of finding the novel, yet her eyes strayed elsewhere, her mind was filled with something other than words.

Consonant noise poured out from the stairwell, seeping into every crack, straining against the walls, striking each chord in Maka's being. The intellectual curiosity of her kind stirred within her, and she was slowly torn from her bookshelf. She walked slowly up to the staircase, pausing on the threshold of the two floors. She knew what was below, but her head couldn't fit together the pieces. The facets she understood- the sibilant French, the historical influence, the hollow of sound- and yet the concept of music remained an incomplete jigsaw in her head. A refrain she recognised from the depths of mainstream composition trickled from the worm-eaten floorboards. Mozart, probably. Mozart, only because he was one of the three composers she could actually name.

It was that curiosity of the naturally intelligent led her down those stairs. That selfsame curiosity may have killed the cat but it was showing Maka a new part of life. Perhaps the killing was still to come- it was obvious the smoke that lingered was not from any fancy pyrotechnics- but something in the piano's refrain told her there was nothing but good here.

It was difficult to see for the dim lights and the shield of smoke, but she could make out a couple details. The cellar was high and vaulted, and the alcoves that would once have held books were full of abstract art and light fixtures. Dark figures drifted around the floor, brooding creatures with long fingers stretched by the shadows that swallowed them. At the far end of the room was a raised platform, too crude to be called a stage. There were four players; a drummer, a pianist, a singer and a guitarist. The lyrics of the song were strangely calming over the instruments beneath it.

The pale man on the piano looked almost ethereal in the light, and as their eyes locked, it was almost as if he was a ghost. A feeling she didn't understand trickled down her spine. And then she recognised it as a sort of recognition, as the pale man on the piano was none other than Soul Evans.

Three things struck her at once. Firstly, that she had been wrong. He didn't play the violin. Secondly, that the lilting melody was good in ways that she couldn't possibly understand. And last of all, she realised that there wasn't a more beautiful sound than his music.

She listened closely, trying to understand what made it so stunning. Maybe it was the melody, encapsulating the song of wind and the sea and the birds. Maybe it was the notes themselves, skimming like stones on the top of the river. Maybe it was the way they trailed into one another, never once pausing for breath. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the caress of Soul's graceful fingers that took her breath away.

She was so rapt by the sonata that it came as a surprise when the music ceased. The group moved offstage to the sound of an enthusiastic crowd. Beside her, a group of girls were conversing in hushed French, "The pianist? That's Soul. His brother's a famous violinist."

"Music runs in the family, huh?"

"I guess. Though I don't like how… classical his melodies are. Very straight up, very Mozart."

There were a couple of nods from the others. Maka wanted to disagree. It was that very same classicism, that sort of simplicity, that made them so beautiful.

Soul was heading towards her. She smiled and raised a hand as a shy greeting, "That was great, Soul."

He barely acknowledged the compliment, "What're you doing here, Maka?"

"Is it a problem?"

"No! Course not. It's brilliant."

It had been a surprise. The way she'd stood shyly at the foot of the stairs had instantly marked her out as different, and then he'd noticed those ridiculous pigtails and those curious green eyes and he'd recognised her. And he'd worried he'd make a mistake in front of her.

"What was that? That… um… faltering thing you did with the notes?"

"Legato," he said, and smiled. Of course. Maka understood its languid appeal

"It was beautiful. Did you compose that?"

He nodded, "The entire thing. The piano, the drums, the guitar, then just created some lyrics over the top."

"Wow," she breathed. One of those on their own amounted to a lot of work, all four was a feat of virtuosic genius. And then she smirked, "That's a surprise, considering your poetic abilities."

He elbowed her in the ribs, "Hey! I said I'd write you some decent poetry. Don't you believe me?"

She smiled, "Of course not. But right here, you've got an opportunity to dazzle me. Go ahead."

Soul wouldn't admit to how long he had spent stitching words together for his next chance. In his sleepless nights and moments of wakefulness, even in his dreams, he was piecing together his lexical canvas.

"The certainty in your eyes heralds a million empty goodbyes, and somehow still you stay, ever watching, ever feeling. You call me a stranger, and I take your lead, as we stumble through silence upon wretched silence, ever parted, ever damned. Somewhere there will be a truth to be tasted, as it drifts through the air on wings of lies, but it's an ever winter, ever ice. And I wonder if there's an us in the distance, borne on a ship that will never come, leaving us with ever you, ever I."

He paused and shrugged, "Whatever. It sounded a lot better in my head."

"It sounds good out your head too."

Soul looked searchingly at her, "So?"

"So what?"

"Does it, well, do anything?"

"It's pretty, I guess. A little sad, a little yearning," she smiled knowlingly, "Most girls would fall for it, if that's what you're trying to ask."

But not Maka.


	5. Cadence

The human mind is like the night sky. Usually, we wander along blindly in the darkness. But sometimes, there'll be a flash of clarity, radiant as a star as we find direction, meaning and purpose. And some stars are so faint, so distant, we don't even know they exist.

Soul and Maka had become something akin to friends in the space of a couple of weeks. They saw more of one another with each day until sleep became a foreign concept to them. And yet, despite this, neither of them suffered for it. Only Maka's reading slowed and that was no real punishment, since Soul was as interesting as any storybook, if not infinteissimaly more so.

Perhaps there was a reason they both eschewed sleep. She thought it was curiosity and he knew it was something more.

And he watched her as she turned the pages of her book. The motion was careful, almost loving, as if she believed this book was a living creature, capable of judgment or affection. He felt like he was intruding on a part of her life he would never understand, and yet he was loath to leave. Torn between his instincts, he lingered, leaning against the bookshelf. But the spine digging into his own served as a reminder that he really should leave.

"Do you think," Maka said, aware of his presence behind her, "That Erik was a monster or just misunderstood?"

"Erik?"

"Haven't you watched the Phantom of the Opera?" she asked, with an odd mixture of mirth and scorn in her voice.

He had, and it was a guilty pleasure of his. He shrugged, "I never really thought about it. He's fictional."

She shook her head at him sadly, and turned back to her book. Her pigtails flew through the air before settling on her shoulders.

As much as those bloody pigtails annoyed him, they had admittedly grown upon him. The hairstyle somehow widened her smile and made her eyes shine. It set her apart as an individual, a person of her own creation.

"It's the fifth time I've read it, actually. Is that too much? I mean, it's the most I've ever read a book, in fact. But it's just so…"

"Beautiful? Yet sad, poignant?" she glanced back at him and be explained, "I've watched it eight times. I think I win."

"So you obviously think something of the phantom."

"I think he sings well, is all."

She laughed, that short laugh that contained so much emotion. It was as if all the peace and contentment in the world had coalesced into her being. If only he could bottle that sound and create symphonies from its crescendo.

"Do you sing too, Soul?"

He choked on nothing, "What?"

"I mean, you're practically a musical genius. You can compose things, you can play the piano like a god-"

He chuckled softly, but could not disguise the blush that rose to his cheeks, "That's an exaggeration…"

"And you can even write lyrics. It doesn't really require much of a stretch of imagination to see you up on a stage, blinded by spotlights. I reckon you'd be a decent soprano."

This time his laugh was louder, amplified by disbelief and confusion, "Soprano? A guy can't sing soprano unless his balls haven't- ou know. Puberty."

"Yes. I do know puberty."

Maka quickly turned back to her book. That was another thing- Maka thought she knew everything, and yet sometimes, Soul could catch her out. She used worfs with care and precision, hand-picked them from the recesses of her mind to paint the most detailed picture. She coveted consonants and vowels as if they were the houses of the gods or the spring from which the earth grew. And yet every now and again, she would blaspheme against her gods and use words she did not understand in order to make her seem even more intelligent. However, they would ring untrue and jar against the mellifluous waltz of her words.

It was almost endearing how she was so well informed and yet so blissfully unaware.

"Soul?"

His gaze sharpened once more as he heard his name. But Maka hadn't failed to notice his flickering concentration. He had become increasingly abstracted lately, his thoughts becoming a tangle in his head as he stared into the virid forests of Maka's eyes. And she worried about that, "This isn't the whole poetry thing again is it? Look, you don't need to prove you're a lexical genius in order to be here. I really like having you around, y'know, especially when you're completely concious."

He smiled lazily at her, and she turned back around, burying her head into her book. She felt her cheeks redden. Even if she didn't feel the full force of his magnetism the way other girls did, there was no denying his pull. He was like a star. Clear and bright and free.

"I love you."

Her eyes stuttered over the print, though she managed to collect herself and turn back round to face him, "I guess that'll do. It's nothing particularly snazzy, no semantic quirks, but it's straightforward, it's believable, it's…"

"Absolutely true," Soul intoned, and his eyes repeated the statement. He pressed forward and their lips touched, feather-light. He was concious of her hand resting on his cheek and her lips deepening the contact, and something soared within him. And yet, when he drew away to look at her, Maka was still, contemplative.

After an achingly long moment, he ventured, "You said you guess it'll do. What does that mean?"

Her smile was small and shy, "It means kiss me again, please."

No words could possibly sound more beautiful.

* * *

**A/N: I'm afraid this tale has drawn to a close. It was always destined to be a short ficlet and there was no real way I could lengthen it, no matter how much I enjoyed it.**

**I hope you guys enjoyed it too. Have a good one, okay? :)**


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